


Curated

by WarriorOmen



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, M/M, Nile POV, Poetry, Post-Movie, SO MUCH FLUFF, Tooth Rotting Fluff, short and sweet, tiny hint of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27111667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarriorOmen/pseuds/WarriorOmen
Summary: There's something magical about poetry, and Joe has a gift for it.--Little current squad fluff piece from Nile's POV. All the fluff you can imagine. Just short and fluffy.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 40
Kudos: 177





	Curated

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bi_leigh_bi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bi_leigh_bi/gifts).



> Just something short and unbearably fluffy.
> 
> Join me on [Tumblr](https://coffeebeannate.tumblr.com/)

“Hey, has anyone seen the-“  
  
Andy never silences Nile-not usually, so she’s surprised to find a single finger pressed to her lips, encouraging her to be quiet a moment. Nile’s gaze is questioning, confused, feeling an insane instinct to reach for a weapon. Though she didn’t have any close by.

The headshake tells her this is not a silencing in the premeditation prep of danger, but rather something far more humbled.

Wordlessly, Andy motions for her to grab one of the steaming mugs near the freshly boiled kettle, Nile could smell the sweet hints of cinnamon and recognized the chai. Four mugs all set, ready to go.

_That’s_ when Nile’s brain starts to register what is actually happening, replacing her bag for two mugs, she can hear Joe speaking in the living room, in what she imagines is Arabic, but it sounds more raw.

“Ancient.” Andy supplies helpfully, with the softest whisper she’s ever heard from her. Perplexed, but intrigued, Nile follows her into the living room. It’s mid-day, but cool enough in their Northern cabin that they’ve put the wood fire on, the crackling noises makes for a wonderful ambiance.

Joe’s sitting on the couch, slightly sprawled out, feet propped up on the old worn brown ottoman, Nicky sitting half-draped across his lap, turned mostly to Joe, the majority of his back to the fire, but he’s too tall to fit on the couch entirely like that. One leg hanging over the armrest, the other sort of grazing the burgundy and yellow area rug. Someone (probably Joe she guesses) has put the truly hideous pink-yellow-orange-brown quilt over him. The things a true monstrosity, but it’s unfathomably warm and a delight to snuggle under.

She’d been expecting Joe to have a book in his lap, something to read from. He has none of those things, one hand toying with the short crop of Nicky’s hair, the other one intwined with Nicky’s over the quilt that covers Nicky’s stomach.

Nile’s rooted in place, her left mug is red, the right one orange and black, and cannot make herself move.

She’s grown used to the easy intimacy they all share, but the sight before her, Nicky’s eyes half-lidded, face a perfect serenity she rarely see’s on it, Joe lost, far-away in reciting but still wholly present, creates an odd, near-throbbing ache in her chest. Something powerful and raw. It’s hard to imagine that people who have been alive this long can be this content.

Everything they’ve _seen,_ experienced and done. All the stories they’ve regaled her with. All the prep, the anxieties, the concerns, and curiosities. None of it seems to exist in these moments. Joe speaking in a language the world might think dead, the true master of softness within the room.

Neither man moves, but she knows from experience they’ve registered her presence, Nile only really brought to movement by Andy gently nudging her shoulder, carrying two other mugs, a green one, and a blue one.

She motions, Nile shuffles to the side of the couch, putting both mugs on the dark wood end table at his elbow, not wanting to break the spell or interrupt him.

Joe’s eyes find hers, as do Nicky’s, but neither change the moment, Joe merely continuing with his reciting.

Andy’s set the other two mugs down, sitting in the arm chair just to the left of the couch, if she extended her own foot she’d be able to hit Nicky with it, so close the furniture is.

That was something else Nile had noticed early on. They shared space, almost any chance they got.

Furniture was always pushed as close as it could be. When sitting they’d find some excuse to make themselves be in one another’s bubble as best as they could.

Touch came naturally. Nile had never seen three people who seemed to have no problem with brushing, touching, hugging, patting. They all gravitated towards one another.

She felt a little alien at first, watching Joe help Andy (under her protest) grab something from a shelf, Joe holding her by the waist while Andy extended her arms.

(Nile did ask about a stool, only to get a belt of laughter from Nicky, like it was a silly question)

Joe’s still speaking, in this moment. Nile shuffling herself to a spot on the floor after some debating. Nicky’s hand suddenly appears by her head, extending a large, slightly too over-stuffed red pillow without question as she props herself against the couch, now flocked by his leg.

She thanks him with a nod, leaning back and getting comfortable, gaze darting to the flames emitted by the fireplace, closing her eyes to enjoy the moment.

There’s a serenity to Joe’s voice unlike anything she’d ever really heard before. “A voice made for poetry” Nicky had mentioned; though she sort of thought _he_ may be a little bit bias in that.

Bias or not, she’s inclined to agree, even more so when she opens her eyes again, fingers clasped about her mug to see how slack Andy has gone in the armchair. Andy carried tension within every inch of her body. Strung like a bow, posture rigid, shoulders braced for impact despite nothing coming. Nile could see how hard she rubbed her neck in the morning, usually until one of the guys started helping her, a hand larger than her own carefully working the kinks out. Her light scowl betrayed by the soft, open fondness in her eyes when they do.

Originally, Nile had found it difficult to try and incorporate herself into this. Sure, she was more than used to sharing quarters with people; but there was something wholly different about the ease with which they all moved and worked. Even when she could tell they were still recovering from the labs.

That was months ago now. None of them pushed her, and because of that, it had become easier to feel more like she belonged with them. Even after they all met up again as a unit, having parted a little right after Merrick’s.

Here, hidden away from the world in this cabin, Joe’s soft ancient Arabic poems filling the air, she’s as taken in as Andy and Nicky, relaxing by increments despite herself, wondering to how much of the world is packed into this tiny room.

“It was one of the first things I fell in love with, from you.” She hears Nicky saying, later, not even sure how much time has passed

(The quarter-empty mug tells her it’s been some time, at least)

“My poetry?” Joe asks, equally quiet though he hardly needs to be. The way he and Nicky read each other perfectly is both endearing and eerie to Nile.

“Your voice, but the poetry it makes certainly helps.”

“When did you first hear it?” Nile finds herself asking, not at all surprised to get a fond chuckle in response.

“By accident,” Nicky says, “It’d been weeks, I’d gather? Maybe months, by then. I had heard him praying at times, but we’d been to town, and I suppose he’d purchased some paper, because I could see him scribbling in a scroll, mumbling to himself. I didn’t quite catch what he was saying, still learning his tongue as I was, but I made myself listen.”

“You watched me for hours.” Joe says, smiling when Nicky strokes over one of his silver rings with his fingertips.

“Watching _and_ listening,” Nicky clarifies, “Never a hardship, that.”

“Careful, you’ll inflate my ego.”

“Impossible, and egotistical or not, I’d love you all the same.”

Nile covers her smile with her blue coffee mugs rim. It should be cheesy, it should be corny and ridiculous, but from them it only sounds pleasant, sweet.

“So I listened, and listened, and eventually he saw me-of course he did-and I asked him to continue.”

“Became habit after that, sometimes by the fire, I’d read, or speak, Nicolò always looked so peaceful in those moments.”

“Until I started hearing a change. When the poems you wrote yourself, _Yusuf,_ became very descriptive in ways I could not relate to.”

“Hilarious, considering they were about you.”

Nile giggles despite herself, “He never noticed?”

“Not for a long while.” Joe says, interrupted at the end by Andy adding, “He got _jealous_ of them.”

Nile glances up from her mug, incredulous, Nicky flushing _just so,_ “I was not _jealous.”_ He attempts to argue, weakly, “I was _confused.”_

“You were absolutely jealous.” Andy says, merciless but fond, “Until the night you finally cut Yusuf off mid-sentence and demanded an explanation.

“Plunking himself in my lap for emphasis helped.” Joe added, grinning into Nicky’s huffy face, “You have always been good at making a point, heart.”

Nicky’s not really embarrassed, Nile can tell, he’s as shameless as the other two are about what he wants, believes, or knows. “My point was made, was it not?”

“Incredibly so.” Joe agrees, “It was a very helpful and eager sentiment you made that night.”

“Why mince words when I can say exactly what I want just as effectively?”

Joe’s hand has migrated, Nile notes, now grazing along Nicky’s jaw. Andy leaning further back into the armchair.

These memories are always bittersweet, Nile knows, all of them carefully thinking, but avoiding mentioning the missing Quynh within them. She knows it to be there, the private looks the three exchange in retellings an ache she can’t hope to bridge.

But they do not shy from them either.

Nile feels a similar ache, at times. Wondering endlessly for her mother, her brother. How they might feel, how they might be now. She holed away in this cabin, only at the start of what’s guaranteed to be a long existence, hoping they’ve got the best for themselves. Her fingers find her cross, cradling it before she’s even aware, starting when a questioning hand brushes against her shoulder.

“I’m okay.” She tells him-Nicky, recognizing his hand, “I’m okay.”

He squeezes, Nile leans into it, sighing softly. She doesn’t apologize, there is no need to, and Joe clears his throat, Andy’s eyes having gone slightly half-lidded, more at peace than Nile thought she had the ability to be.

Is it peace? She can’t help but wonder, is she truly content? She knows she aches-that they all do. But perhaps when you’re that old, things just have too mesh.

Peace might come in waves, in spurts, but it comes.

Nicky’s murmured something to Joe, something Nile can’t hear properly nor translate, Joe smiling and clearing his throat.

The poetry starts again, this time the language is slightly different, something Nile can understand more than a handful of words in. And maybe it’s the warmth, the dance of the fire across her knees, the spread of comfort from her near-empty chai or the true serenity and protectiveness of the group but, like Andy, she settles.

**Author's Note:**

> Title might not make much sense, but I picked Curated because I feel it's a great way of explaining their world a bit. These people have worked to make their family, have worked to make their environment. Curating their experiences the best they can.
> 
> I like, no sorry I LOVE voices, Joe's especially (how Marwan, the actor) presents it is magical to me. And I planned to explore it a much different way, but this came to me as an idea and a fluff piece for my friend. I do plan to explore it more in the future, but Joe's just got an unbelievably poetic way of speaking. I love it.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed~


End file.
